After a long absence (life is pandemonium!), I return to you with an anecdote from this past Sunday, Mother’s Day. It had been a lovely day of relaxation and indulging in all the little things that make my Mama particularly happy, like Dad’s homemade blueberry waffles, mimosas, and the completion of planting all of Mama’s flowers.
It was late now, nearing midnight, and everyone had to get up early for school and jobs. Mama & Daddy were in bed, and my little brother climbed up between them. Their bed is about eight feet off the ground; you really have to get some momentum going to get up there. Even though Zach is a lanky eighteen-year-old and took up a lot of space, I wanted to join in the love fest, so I started to climb up, too.
The bed suddenly fell about four feet. That’s right; it broke. I felt so badly that I was in tears because, seriously, who wants to take apart a queen sized bed and put it all back together again near midnight?! It took a while, and it was hard work as my parents have a tiny room and the bed is so huge and old and made of wood, and did I mention it’s a canopy bed? It was a grand Mother’s Day party foul that I will never live down.
If I get married, the bed will be on a slab on the floor.